Sweet Alyssum
by EmmanuelleG
Summary: At first he was a shadow, then an angel, and finally just a man. Christine finds herself involved with the figure from her nightmares who killed a person before her eyes, and is slowly pulled into his world, eventually losing herself. Modern Retelling. Leroux.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Christine Daae had no plan. As a prospective music student, she was expected to have one. Graduate with honors, make a list of opera companies to apply to, find an apartment suited to her income. But truth be told, she couldn't be bothered. She woke up each morning and saw only gray. It'd been like that for almost half a year.

Right now, her major was simply English Literature, and her minor the quite popular History. Just to make sure she was completely unemployable after graduation, she'd gone with those two. Halfway through the first semester, she'd turned to her father and announced that she was going to try to get into the music program. The violinist had sadly smiled at her and, somewhere in the distance, she could almost hear a unique string of his beloved instrument cry.

"As you wish," he'd said. "But be careful."

There was a reason they had an apartment and not a house, or even a condo. So few actually succeeded in, what the others referred to, the business. She was tempted to make air quotes whenever someone mentioned the phrase.

Christine was enthusiastic to a fault, at first. Picking up extra shifts at her part-time job (simple retail store, nothing too fancy), signing up for two singing classes, and practicing musical theory at home with Gustav. She struggled with the latter but, then again, who didn't ? Especially when coming back to something she used to know years and years ago.

Everything had changed in a heartbeat. Advanced tuberculosis. The romantic disease, as the internet called it nowadays; the one that used to claim lovers, after they'd shared a passionate kiss, in some months.

She watched her father cough up blood, certain that now, just in a moment, or a second later, a piece of his lung wold fly out as well. Her veins had turned dark blue from lack of sleep, her hands shook whenever someone coughed around her. The doctors told her that she was lucky not to be infected.

"A miracle," a white haired consultant had said, and tapped her on the shoulder.

A few short weeks later (seven, to be precise), she was alone. The violin gathered dust in Gustav's room which she kept locked at all times, and the hospital bills piled up under the door. At some point she lost it, and flung the papers into the bathtub, fully intending to drown any last reminder of her father's death. She ended up sliding down the wall, clutching at her hair, and sobbing for no one to hear. The insurance company would just resend them, and she'd end up with a ton more.

Fast forward a year, and she no longer considered changing programs. Christine was comfy in her uneventful existence, if not constantly sad. Sometimes, she felt like a robot. Each morning began with cereal and ended with her watching a stupid show to dull her senses to pain. It still hadn't gone. And when someone asked her how that music thing was going, she answered only with "Good."

Students, like busy bees, swarmed the grassy campus. Christine walked past a couple of Drama students who practiced a piece in hushed tones, feeling somewhat envious while watching them. One of them she knew, a tall girl named Sorelli who got in only after a year. She was the fiercest of them all, and so flexible. That didn't really count for anything, but was still pretty impressive.

Her best friend Meg studied engineering, an odd choice if one knew her character. She was a lonely feminine face in a sea of men, the constant center of attention. Christine admired her courage to go against her family's tradition of becoming a ballet dancer (where women were concerned, that is.) Meg could touch her toes to her face any time of day, but had chosen a needed profession instead.

She saw her waving at her from across the campus, her red shirt so bright it hurt the eye. They finished at the same time every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, and Meg usually gave her a ride to the mall. They also happened to work a floor apart. Christine on the first, her friend on the second. Meg could sell ice to an Eskimo, and in some way did; she was a jewelery salesperson, talking men into buying useless accessories with that ring or that bracelet. And god forbid they ever left without a polishing cloth !

"How are things ?" Meg chirped happily when they met.

Christine shrugged. "The usual. But you – don't you think I forgot about Jimmy. What's happening with him ?"

Meg playfully batted her eyelashes. "I'm meeting his parents tomorrow." He tone became serious once more. "I'm so nervous. I'm scared I might throw up. Ever had that feeling ?"

"Tons of times." That wasn't a life. Her anxiety bordered on abnormal. "You just have to breathe. He's a great guy. Meg, I swear I will slap you if you decide to make a list of his flaws and use it to break up with him."

"I won't. He's perfect."

He actually was, as far as University-aged guys were concerned. Serious but funny, handsome by all standards, and with good morals. Christine remembered spending an awkward lunch with him after Meg insisted that they bond. Jimmy had admitted to being raised at an all-boys school. He'd even showed her a few thin scars on his fingers which, he assured, he got from nuns. Christine had nodded, but believed up to this day that those were a result of a biking accident. He drove that thing even in winter.

They reached Meg's faithful, old Volvo which once was green, but now was the color of a swamp in summer. Christine affectionately caressed the car's roof before climbing inside, and rolling down the window. The wind smoothed her pale hair for her. Her eyes settled on the music building, and she turned away.

"Still going for English, huh ?" Meg asked quietly. Nothing escaped her.

"Please Meg, not today," Christine said with a sigh.

"All right, all right."

Meg pushed her keys into the ignition and they were off.

* * *

There were three jobs to do in her store. The first one, and the most desired, was to guard the cash. Which, in plain words, meant doing nothing. The second, aka the hated one, was walking around and annoying customers with "Can I help you ?" The third, at which Christine excelled, was changing the mannequins.

Her shift started at four in the afternoon, but she always arrived a little early to ensure she wasn't stuck with the old meet-and-greet.

Lindsey, the day manager, kicked off her pair of heels, and collapsed on a bench in the back store with a groan.

"I am going to punch them in the face," she moaned, rubbing her temples. "I hate customers. Thirty days to exchange. Not a year."

"Yeah," Christine answered sympathetically, looking for her name tag. "That's never fun. But you're good at dealing with them."

Lindsey usually listened to their rant in absolute silence, and then, over eagerly, invited them to complain to the head office to their heart's content. Christine laughed softly at the memory.

She loved her lack of power. If someone got upset she just called one of the managers, or a third key if they were absent, and went on about her business.

"Anyway. Don't forget to sweep tonight. I don't know who closed yesterday, but when I arrived there were dust bunnies floating around."

"I will," Christine assured her. "Have fun."

She raced onto the floor just as Jill, her ever-late colleague, rushed into the store. Her face was red from effort, and she had trouble breathing because of the massive gum in her mouth. Christine made her way to a mannequin and started rearranging its shirt. Some teenagers, no doubt, had pulled it down so all the interesting parts were exposed. Oh well, at least it gave her something to do.

"Oh man," Jill complained in her high voice, looking around. "I can't believe you're all here."

"Yep," Christine answered simply over her shoulder.

Tamara made a mocking bow, inviting her to a clothing rack. "Be my guest, darling. You're on "Is the size good ?" duty tonight." She smiled a Cheshire cat grin at her. "No stealing. I'll glue myself to this thing" - she stroked the cash register - "if I have to, but I'm not leaving."

"Just wait 'till you have to go to the bathroom," Jill grumbled, dragging her feet away.

* * *

Christine had just finished sweeping when Tamara closed one door, announcing to the world that five-minutes-before-closing customers weren't welcome. Not that they had many to begin with. The evening had been rather boring, just as usual. Christine had pretended to be busy while poor Jill aimlessly wandered around. The owner had had cameras installed, and could check on them to see if they were in fact doing something. Store policy demanded for them to be constantly busy, even if they were faking it.

"You can go," Tamara said, taking the broom from her hands. "You have an early class tomorrow."

Christine shook her head. "I still have half an hour left, and-"

"I'll clock you out five minutes after nine," Tamara promised with a smile. "Besides, if someone deserves a bonus here it's you."

"Thank you," Christine whispered. "Call me and I'll cover for you whenever."

The girl waved her off. "Don't make such promises. You know I'll make you keep them."

Meg finished an hour before her, so she usually took a bus home. It was an all right ride, but the wait was a little long. She couldn't afford to miss it as it came only every forty minutes. Christine pulled on her jacket, wrapped a thin scarf around her neck, and headed out.

"Christine, wait !" Jill cried out. "Can you take out the garbage ?"

"Sure."

It was only one half-full bag, not very heavy and, fortunately, not leaking anything odorous. Christine swung it over her shoulder and walked to the back door. It led into an alleyway which, in turn, ended in an empty parking lot on one side, and the street on the other. From there, she had but to walk a few minutes to get to the bus stop.

Christine threw the bag into the dumpster when an odd sound reached her ears. It sounded like panting, but not from a dog. She'd grown up around so many that she could differentiate without a problem. When they were kids, Meg and she used to walk the neighborhood Poodles, Labradors, and Shih Tzu's for a dollar.

The sound intensified, now paired with an unmistakable, muffled cry of pain. Warily, she took a step toward the parking, and then another, and another. Felt her heart thump in her ears.

There were no apartment complexes here. It was just a place for mall workers to leave their cars at, and, at this hour, was a desert of junk and stray cats. But there was one car, parked at the farthest corner, right under the lamppost that had died years ago. Long shadows danced in that dark spot, sometimes coming out almost enough for her to see their owners, and then disappearing anew.

Christine looked down at her old watch. She'd just missed the bus.

A hiss. A cry. And then the unmistakable collapse of a body onto the concrete. A yelp of pain.

Her feet moved on their own accord and she ran toward the noise which, quite suddenly, ceased. A figure rolled out of the dimness, one of a middle aged man. He was struggling to get up, blood ran down his chin, poured out of his nose, and he was gasping for dear life.

"Sir !" she called, distressed.

The second figure stilled for good. She could no longer see even its outline. Christine dropped to her knees before the man, and cradled his head. There was a large burn around his neck, as though he'd come out of an unsuccessful suicide attempt, and the rope had broke under his weight. He wheezed in her face, his breath reeking of blood, upsetting her stomach.

She was only too aware of the fact that the attacker could still be around, and couldn't calm herself. She almost dropped the man once or twice while fighting for clarity.

"I'll call 911," she promised frantically, trembling like an aspen leaf, "I'll do it right now."

Just as she turned around to dig through her purse, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows and knocked her to the ground. Her forehead collided with the pavement and she saw stars. Christine rolled to the side, her vision blurry with tears and pain.

She was about to faint. She knew the signs.

The figure, at this point a true shadow to her wild imagination, caught the poor man's head and...snapped his neck. As easily as a chicken bone.

The wheezing, the panting, the gasping stopped at once. She felt strength desert her body. Her hand was still around her cell phone, and she pressed the emergency button before the shadow, very gingerly, took it away.

She heard a curse escape it, but really, it sounded more like a melody. The shadow let go of the now-useless device, and retreated into the darkness.

The last thought that made it to Christine before she really, truly fainted, was that the man next to her was a warm corpse.

* * *

I've realized that I don't have a modern day retelling of our beloved story on FF. I have so many on my computer that I've started, abandoned, and never finished. But this one has just always been my favorite. It's my baby. The one I'm most proud of. I figured I'd give this to you as a sign of love, since I'm not updating (but rather rewriting) my other stories. It's complete, so I'll probably be posting one chapter a week so no one has to wait. I hope you find it entertaining.

Enjoy ! And much love to all of you.

One of the meanings of Sweet Alyssum is 'Worth Beyond Beauty'.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Some years ago, while still pretending to be a tomboy and scurrying up and down trees, Christine had suffered a fall. The branch, old and dry and half-devoured by insects, broke under her insubstantial weight, sending her tumbling down. Her chin took most of the damage, requiring stitches to quell the flow of blood. But what she remembered most from that day was the way she'd accidentally elbowed herself in the stomach. Air had rushed out of her mouth in one wordless cry of pain, and now that unpleasant sensation was back.

A million hummingbirds were trapped between her ears. They sang in her head, their melody growing louder and wilder with every passing moment. An invisible hand smashed an equally invisible hammer repeatedly against her skull. Christine buried her face in the softness of a pillow.

_Pillow_. Her eyes fluttered open only to see a white cloth. Her eyelashes decorated it with butterfly kisses as she debated whether or not to turn around. The fan on the ceiling told her that she wasn't in her room, or her apartment, as a matter of fact. Blinking, she tentatively rose, finding that her legs were as strong as ever.

This was a hospital room.

Christine yanked aside the privacy curtain which shielded her from the other patients. They were three in total. An older woman, a boy with a broken leg, and a girl her age sleeping peacefully. A nurse stood by the latter, adjusting her IV drip. The sound alerted her, and she twirled on her heels.

"Oh, you're awake," she said. Then added, "Finally. They've been pestering us about you all morning. Stay here."

Her mouth barely had the time to open before the nurse walked away, her pace confident and quick. Christine closed her eyes again. It only intensified the pain lodged behind them. Her forehead throbbed and burned at the same time. She caught sight of herself in of the metallic bedposts, and was desperately glad for her square bangs. A bandage covered most of her forehead, but she knew by the feeling that a large bruise hid beneath it.

The nurse came back with a man holding a large cup of coffee. He drank from it eagerly, gulping down every last drop, before throwing it away. He pulled a plastic chair next to her bed and sat down, his elbows crashing down on his knees. He had dark circles under his eyes, suggesting that he'd spent the night at the hospital.

"Ms. Daae," he said, extending his large hand for her to shake, "I'm Thomas Landon, and I've been assigned to the Buquet case." His voice was low as he spoke, as though the walls around them had ears.

"Buquet," she repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. "Is it the man-"

"Yes, the one who got killed last night," Landon finished for her almost impatiently. "I need you to tell me what happened. You're our only witness."

Christine looked around, uncertain. Sensing her hesitation, the man pulled the curtain shut around them. She shook her head, _No it's not that,_ at which he raised an eyebrow.

"I wish I could help, but I don't remember much." She shrugged. "I was taking the garbage out and there were those noises, like someone was being hurt. Then I saw that man and he couldn't even talk. He had those horrible burns around his neck" - Christine demonstrated on herself - "as though he'd tried to hang himself, or something. Then that...other person knocked me unconscious." Absentmindedly, she felt for the bandage. "And broke his neck. Then I passed out. That's all. I'm sorry."

But apparently something in her rant did spark Landon's interest. He leaned forward in his chair.

"That other person," he pressed, "what did he or she look like ?"

"I didn't see him," Christine answered. "Or her."

She didn't say as much, but the force with which the figure had hit her couldn't have belonged to a woman. That was but a speculation and therefore useless to the police.

Whatever they'd given her for the pain was now wearing off. Well, the very last bits of it. The veil lifted from her vision little by little, and she replayed the scene in her mind over and over again. Cry. Run. Hit. Voice. Black. In that precise order.

"Wait," she said suddenly, and a little too loudly. "I...the person took my phone." Christine shook her head. "I pressed the emergency button, and he or she just took it away from me. Dropped it right after." She nodded more eagerly. "Yes, I remember _that_."

Landon looked her over, disappointment reflecting in his eyes. Once more, his hand was thrust forward in a cold gesture of formality.

"Then you won't mind if we take it to the lab for a second look. You may be called to the station for further questioning as the case progresses. Good day, Ms. Daae."

He left as brusquely as he'd arrived, taking along the tension that had crept into the room. Christine watched the door, dispassionate and quiet, and thought of the class she'd missed.

A younger counterpart to the usual nurse came about an hour later, carrying a blue bag and her discharge papers. Christine shuffled through her belongings, finding everything in place except, of course, her cell phone.

"Let's get this off." The young woman smiled and took hold of her wrist, cutting through the hospital wristband with cuticle scissors. "Do you have someone to pick you up ?"

"Not really," Christine admitted. "But it's okay, I'll take the bus."

"Well," the woman began, "you don't have a concussion, but you still have to take it easy. So just don't run after it or anything."

"I won't," she promised with a laugh.

Changing out of the hospital gown felt like heaven. Her yesterday clothes were crumpled, but still softer and warmer than the light shift. And certainly covered more skin. The man at the front desk whom she handed her papers to asked another time if she needed to call someone.

No. No. A thousand times no. She just wanted to get out of this wretched place which reeked of medicine and pain. Those long hallways could have been twins to the ones she'd navigated day and night when Gustav was sick.

"No thank you."

And once the fresh air hit her face, Christine indeed felt better. Even if only for a short while.

* * *

It had been a week since the incident.

Christine awoke in a cold sweat, her hair sticking to her face. She groggily brushed it away, and reached for a glass of water. It did not calm her down.

In her dreams, she saw nothing. But oh, she heard.

_Crack._

_Snap._

_Crack._

Buquet's neck (she couldn't bring herself to forget the name, repeating it like a mantra at times) was broken again and again and again, behind her closed eyelids. In many different ways. Sometimes, it was but a little sound which could easily be confused with the crunching of leaves. At others, it seemed than an entire orchestra replayed the snapping, louder each time, until morning broke and she was alone and panicked.

She glanced at the alarm clock. With winter approaching, the early hours grew darker with each passing day. At 7 a.m, the sun had only begun to peer at them from behind the clouds.

With the loss of her cell phone to the police, Christine had been forced to acquire a new one. When she'd activated it, a couple of messages from Meg flashed across the screen. Their tones ranged from naturally worried to slightly ecstatic. Jimmy's mom, as it would seem, was taken with her. And what more could a girl ask for ? On the other hand, she wanted to know why the hell she wasn't answering.

But it's not her cell phone which rang now.

No one ever called her that early. Not even telemarketers. A little wary, she lifted the receiver to her ear.

"Yes, Ms. Christine Daae," a voice exclaimed on the other end. It bore a hint of an accent. "I'm overlooking the Buquet case in which you are a witness..."

She sighed, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. How long was this going to last ? Landon she'd been able to handle just fine as he was brief. But his colleagues were more persistent, and showed up at her doorstep with scrolls of questions. Each inquiry was spun into another one, different words were used – all to confuse her. But she always related the same information, never wavering. Why did they keep coming back ?

"What can I do for you ?" she asked, knowing very well what would follow.

"I would like to speak with you. When is a good time ?"

"I only have a class in the afternoon, and am working after." Tamara had urged her to take some time off, but bangs masked her bruise well enough and so Christine waved her off. "We can meet around nine, if that's good for you." She wasn't going back to sleep anyway.

"Splendid," he said. "No need for meetings. I don't want to inconvenience you any more than necessary, I'll just stop by your apartment."

True to his word, the man showed up two hours later, opting to knock instead of ringing the doorbell. Christine gaped at him for a moment after opening the door. He wasn't like the cops she'd dealt with. Taller, for one, and , well, not American for two. The gray of his suit brought out the rich color of his skin.

"Ms. Daae," he said, nodding obligingly. "I am Nadir Khan."

She moved aside so he could enter. "Nice...to meet you, Mr. Khan."

They sat down at her kitchen table. She'd taken an aspirin in advance, knowing that the questions would give her a headache. The man opened a deceptively thin file; Christine caught sight of a little, square picture of herself in the top corner. For a minute silence took over as he went through the documents.

"Well," Khan announced, taking out a blank piece of paper for himself, "this ought to do. Tell me exactly what happened that night."

Since her conversation with Landon, Christine had learned not to babble. Straightforward and to the point: that's what they were looking for. She gave him the updated version of events while tracing the rim of her cup of coffee with a finger.

"All right. What did he look like ?"

Christine stilled. "I never said it was a man."

"I never implied that you did. I just don't see the point of muttering 'he or she' each time I speak." He smiled at her for a moment. "But you jumped awfully quick to that conclusion. Was there any evidence that led you to believe that the person might have been male ?"

She shifted in her chair. "I...ah." Maybe the speculation wasn't that useless after all. "The person was strong," she finally breathed. "I felt it. I saw how he twisted that poor man's neck. But that's all I know. Really. He wasn't more than a shadow to me." It felt good not to have to tiptoe around the matter of gender anymore.

Khan nodded at her, eyes downcast at his notes. He quickly scribbled something, and hid it before she could even think about glancing at the paper.

"If you don't mind me asking," Christine began, "who are you working for ? You're not with the police. Your credentials are different."

"There are agencies above them," Khan replied simply. "You've been most helpful." Suddenly, he reached out across the table to take one of her hands. "Do not worry yourself sick. You will be fine, Ms. Daae. Safe. I promise you that."

"Thank you," she said, looking at the warm hand instead of its owner's face. "Do you need help driving out of here ? It's a small neighborhood. A lot of streets, very confusing and all."

"I'll leave those troubles to my ride."

When he was gone, Christine ran to the balcony. A black car with tinted windows was parked before her building. Khan climbed in and shut the door with more force than required. The clatter resonated around the street, but soon both man and car were gone.

* * *

"I cannot believe you made me come out of retirement for that."

He watched the masked man flip through the pages in the file. The materials had been faxed to him a day earlier. Nadir had sneered, rolled his eyes, and abandoned them to his desk until the morning after. There wasn't an ounce of discriminating evidence in the lot, but it was certainly full of details of all sorts.

But the victim hadn't been just anybody, and his identity was what generated all this attention.

He saw Erik silently extend his hand. The thin fingers curled out from the fist they'd been forming. Nadir pulled the recording device from the inside of his jacket, and dropped it into his palm.

"Many thanks," the shadow said, and resumed his reading.

A _shadow_. That's precisely what Christine had called him. And how right she'd been. Even with the light of morning cutting through the dark glass, the man by his side remained a dim outline. Only the occasional shuffling of papers gave life to his thin form.

"Listen, there's nothing to worry about. She saw nothing and has no reason to lie about it. Erik, she's just a girl. A very polite girl, I'll give you that, but just a girl in the end. She's no danger to you."

"As you say."

It'd been the odd, however justified, feeling of responsibility which guided him to Daae's home. Buquet wouldn't have been after Erik if it weren't for his carelessness, and so he was caught between a rock and a hard place. Assisting a murderer, Nadir thought grimly, had never felt so right. After this his debt would cease to exist, and they'd fall back into their respective places. A happy routine which involved hiding from each other.

He had lost it. If anything, Erik's character was elegant. He disliked bloodshed (preferred a clean death) and attention, however often caused the former and sometimes attracted the latter. Something indeed incredible must have occurred to force him to kill Buquet out in the streets in such a grotesque manner.

But if twenty years had taught him anything, it was that silence was unbecoming of his friend. For heaven's sake, he _loved_ going off on a rant. Loved to play with words, twist them, throw them in someone's (too often his) face like poisonous accusations.

Erik closed the file on his finger. "Thank you for this," he said though his tone suggested the courtesy to be a mockery. "I believe you can walk from here."

The car came to an abrupt halt. It would take him half an hour, but at least he hadn't dropped him off in the middle of nowhere.

Nadir's hand hovered over the handle. "I am sorry for what's happened, truly, but do not take it out on an innocent."

He climbed out before Erik's tongue could slash his back like a whip. How long was it going to be before they saw each other again ? Five years ? Ten ? A part of him hoped that the answer was never. He'd spent his career closing his eyes and falsifying information. A respite was in order.

* * *

Aw guys, thanks for the wonderful response. I'm really excited about this story.

I'm leaving tomorrow for four days so I wanted to get this chapter out before then. I think that in the future I will be updating every Thursday, but we'll see.

As always, enjoy !


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Christine sat stoically in the lobby of the music building. It was different from the seats of the other departments. The benches were old, carved from some dark wood; the walls painted a bit too bright to please the eye; and the ceilings could compete with any church's. Still the resonance was superb, and that's what counted.

It did not happen at once, and certainly not easily, but in the end she'd dragged herself to the admission office. As a current student, instead of going through the complicated process a second time, she simply needed to transfer her documents. Add some more banalities to the lot, and it was still simpler than applying to another establishment altogether.

But, of course, there was still the matter of auditioning. Something Christine feared to the point of sickness. First of all, she'd neglected to practice, cancelled her lessons, and swept pages of theory under her bed after Gustav's demise. It was like starting from scratch whereas the other students had a legion of professionals supporting them. Meg was a cheerleader in her own right, but then again the girl was a natural talent. She succeeded in a second where others spent a lifetime preparing; their situations were not alike, and it was a difficult concept for her to grasp.

Secondly...she worried losing her nerve and not showing up at all.

She furtively glanced at the file sitting in her lap just long enough to have doubts, but then a voice was calling her name and she was moving as though in a dream. All she could think about, as she walked to the office on legs made of cotton, was that her name was Daae, not Day. But oh well. The mistake was as old as Christine herself; she could live with it.

The secretary who'd worked here longer than anyone bid her to sit. She was a smiling woman, good-natured, and with fingers plagued by arthritis. The nameplate on her desk read Martha Valerius.

"What is it, dear ?" she asked evenly, side-glancing at her computer screen.

"I want to change programs. I'm already a student here," Christine blurted out the last part without really knowing why. It's not like a stranger would be sitting here just for the sake of it. "That's what the academic adviser told me to bring." She quickly pushed the file along the desk before changing her mind. "It has my school record, my..."

The woman cut her off. "Very well, dear." Then more softly, sensing her taut nerves, "You'll receive a letter by mail with instructions on how to proceed, if you meet the admission requirements."

"Thank you," Christine said, eagerly leaping to her feet. "Goodbye."

She didn't have social anxiety, was a regular amount of nervous in certain situations, but something about transferring into music filled her with foreboding. She felt both daring and stupid, like she was tossing a coin the result of which would determine her life. And in a way she was.

Gustav had been so talented, his music so sweet, but while his career flourished at the beginning, it died near the middle. He was just another concert violinist, sometimes signing contracts, but most often than not watching them being handed to someone else. His one constant of stability had been Christine, otherwise god knows what he would have become. But now he was gone, and she'd somehow convinced herself to spiral down the same path as her father. The poor man who'd shut himself with his daughter in a room for months after his wife died. Not exactly the picture of health.

* * *

To say that her time spent with Jimmy was awkward was to say nothing at all. His talkative nature vanished, _evaporated_, whenever they were forced into a room alone. He would make some odd remark, and she'd pretend to be interested in it. He was certainly compatible with Meg, but not with her.

When her friend left her a message that she was going to be unable to pick her up after work, but that she'd found an alternative, Christine's heart fell into her stomach.

_Jimmy will take you home._

Twenty minutes of awful awkwardness. Maybe more if there was traffic, though that was unlikely. She looked at the clock hanging in the back store. She had a quarter of an hour left before the end of her shift. Enough to cancel Meg's silly arrangement. Christine sent Jimmy a message she hoped didn't sound insulting.

_You don't have to come. I'll be late._

The reply was nearly instantaneous.

_Ok. Let me know if anything changes._

Her lips curled into a smile. This way, no one felt insulted and once more their little arrangement triumphed. Don't spend more time together than necessary, or do it for Meg's sake. So far it'd suited them both just fine.

Besides, this was for the best. She knew he had to get up early to meet an old friend flying from Maine at the airport.

Jill opened the door just a crack and peered inside. "Care to do the garbage tonight ? Please ?"

"Yeah, but you sweep."

"Deal." The girl grinned and trotted past her to get the broom.

She didn't mind taking the trash out. It meant avoiding the possibility of dealing with an annoying customer who barged in five minutes before closing time. Jill hadn't yet realized it, but it would come.

What she didn't say was that the alleyway terrified her beyond belief. That, in her dreams, it was her constant dwelling. As though she were a ghost condemned to one place. The snapping of bone. The gasps. The sweat on the man's brow. The police guaranteed her safety, and so far the promise had been kept, but the feeling of dread was a persistent fellow, never quite departing. Just when she thought it'd gone to rest, it popped up again, and she would wake up screaming.

Christine looked up and noticed that the girl lingered still, just standing there, using the broom for support. Her voice was very quiet when she spoke; Jill's foot gave the door a swift kick and it closed, granting them privacy.

"Are you all right ?" she asked. Her eyes glided over Christine's forehead.

Instinctively, Christine reached to feel the bruise. The skin was still tender, though not as blue as it'd been in the beginning. The nurse had assured her the color would soon fade.

There was no point in lying. "I'm fine," she said simply. "Not good, but certainly not bad. Sometimes, I have trouble sleeping." She wouldn't mention the recurring nightmare, wouldn't give Jill more reasons for concern, wouldn't feed her curiosity.

"You spook easily," Jill remarked. To illustrate her point, she hit the wall with the broom. The sound resonated throughout the back store, sending the tiniest shiver up Christine's spine. "You need a break."

"Maybe I'll skip my morning class tomorrow," she offered, half-tempted to actually do it.

"Well maybe you should."

Later, as Christine threw the garbage bags into the dumpster, her shoulders rose and fell like frantic birds. It was foolish, dumb even, but the thought that the shadow (for she couldn't quite bring herself to think of that dark shape as a person) was somewhere near gnawed at her mind.

It was silent, no one had joined her outside as the other stores closed later, and cars were rare. The alleyway seemed to exist in its own little world, sounds barely reaching it. She sang a light tune under her breath as she closed the lid. Anything to keep panic from manifesting. Her voice was but a murmur as it got whisked away by the wind.

Her legs were impatient for action, but before she could rush to the safety of the bus stop, Christine stopped. Turned around to stare at the darkness.

That man had had a ring on his finger, she clearly remembered that. A wedding band. A family had just lost a husband, a father perhaps. She toyed with the chain around her throat, a plain silver thing, a gift from Gustav. She wouldn't have been missed by many, had the shadow not shown her mercy.

And suddenly, it occurred to her that she was more afraid of living without knowing the future than she'd been when death breathed in her ear. Her anchor had sunk the day Gustav died; nothing of importance remained. She could just drift away, disappear under a wave, and no one would mind. Hell, she wouldn't. Her fingers tugged at the chain more forcefully, the silver biting into her skin, scorching it.

There was no one. Absolutely no one.

Christine plunged back into the alleyway, found the darkest corner of the brick wall, and kicked it with all her might. The pain was splendid as it radiated from her toes to her heel to her shin. She did it again. And once more. This was the same fit of hysteria which had consumed her when she got rid of Gustav's hospital bills.

"How could you leave me," she hissed angrily. "How could you, how could you, how could you..." Eventually it all turned into a whisper, that whisper morphed into a whimper, and the whimper into a sob. "You bastard, I'm all alone. You bastard..."

She pressed her bruised forehead to the wall, felt the scalding tears prickle her eyes.

"The angel of music will always be with you," she mimicked her father's voice. "Ha ! Where was the angel that day, dad, hmm, where was he ? I can't even get into the program..."

When she realized that her frenzied monologue had gone up a few octaves, Christine immediately pursed her lips shut. Her breathing was still ragged, though, and it took several minutes for her to calm down enough to walk to the bus stop without appearing mad. She wiped away the tears before they could fall, and hurried away.

It had been months since she last lost control. Christine was grateful it'd happened in the dark, next to a dumpster, and under a broken streetlight. Things could have been worse; at least, she hadn't gone catatonic.

* * *

"What do you mean someone paid it off ? I don't understand."

The woman on the line sighed yet again, irritated. "Miss, there's nothing more I can tell you. A random act of charity. The person chose to remain anonymous. You should just enjoy it."

"I...okay," Christine struggled for words. "Well, thank you very much."

"You're welcome, Ms. Daae."

For the longest while, she stared at the wall, astounded, unable to form a coherent thought. Her check had been returned, and when she called the hospital the receptionist informed her that the bill had been settled. She made her repeat it thrice, each time sure she'd misheard the woman. It wasn't the case as the information never changed, and her pockets did not get any lighter.

But who would do such a thing ?

Her mind brought up Meg's face. Even if she'd somehow taken the amount out of her student budget, her friend wasn't the kind to play the tooth fairy and remain anonymous about it.

Christine tore the check to pieces, wrote a new one for the same amount, and hid it in a drawer. The payee line was purposefully left blank. If it indeed had been her friend, she wouldn't take advantage of her charity, but until then the money wouldn't belong to anyone in particular.

That evening, she went down to the lobby to seek out the landlord. He was gruff, said little, but otherwise was a pleasant enough person. A couple of times, he'd pretended not to notice she was late on rent. Let it slide without remark.

He was fidgeting with the mailboxes when she found him. Christine leaned casually against the wall, smiling softly.

"Hey Marc," she said, causing him to lift his eyes. "I've got rent."

He brushed away a lock of brown hair which tickled his nose. "A little early, aren't you ?"

"I've picked up a few extra shifts at work. There you go."

She tried thrusting the envelope into his large hands, but he only shook his head.

"What's the matter with you ?" Marc protested. His usually mild voice had gone up a notch in curiosity. "Have you forgotten ?"

For a second, bile rose up her throat. Had the rent gone up and she wasn't aware ? Christine hurriedly made the math in her mind. This was not good, not good at all. She'd be able to get by, but it wouldn't be pretty. And she would never dare to ask for a raise at work. It was only a part-time job, nothing too serious; if she decided to be difficult, ten college girls would line up before the store to take her place in a heartbeat.

The nervous tick which involved scratching the skin off her thumb with her nail returned full force.

"I...don't know," she said at last, apprehensively.

"Funny girl." He chortled. "You get your rent paid in advance and still come to me with money. Problems with memory, Christine ? So young ?" Him teasing her was a rare occurrence, and usually she responded with a smile. Not now.

"In advance ?" she repeated, the nail biting into skin until it hurt.

"Two months, to be precise. Almost forgot." Marc beckoned her with a finger, and she followed like a dog. "A letter was left for you. No idea who it came from, though." He shrugged. "Too lazy to buy a stamp."

In his mock office devoid of even a window, he shuffled through a mountain of papers before extracting a single envelope. It'd been sealed. The surface bore her name, the handwriting clumsy and inelegant. Christine Daae, she read. _Daa__é_. Complete with the original accent.

She clutched it, crumpling the paper in her grasp. No one had bothered with the accent with the exception of Gustav. Ever.

"Are you okay ?" Marc's face came back into focus. His eyes were narrowed.

"I...yes. I'm fine, I'm okay," Christine reassured him. The crease between his brows got deeper so she nodded until it went away. "I'm good, don't worry. Just a headache."

"That thing still bothering you ?"

"Yeah," she lied.

"Take it easy, girl."

She promised she would and escaped into the staircase. Her heart was too loud in her ears; she could not go on. Two random acts of kindness, as the receptionist had called them, done to benefit the same person, but coming from different directions, were one too many. Such coincidences did not happen in real life.

Christine froze, and with trembling hands tore the envelope open. Bits of paper floated through the air like snowflakes.

One sentence. Just one. It seemed, that's all her benefactor would give her.

_Concentrate on what you love_, it read.

_Your friend._

* * *

Life got in the way, sorry guys. I promise this is about to pick up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Meg was the first, and only, suspect on the list.

Christine paid her best friend careful attention; but, like a seasoned con artist, the girl gave none of her tricks away. She still waited for everything to disappear, to vanish into thin air, and yet nothing did. Her routine hadn't changed, but a certain weight had certainly been taken off her shoulders. It was easier to breathe, and at the same time she couldn't cease analyzing people around her, peering into dark corners. Help came from somewhere, and Christine did not believe in happy coincidences. Sure, Make a Wish and other alike foundations existed, but she doubted there was one actually dedicated to poor students struggling with rent.

However days passed. Every Monday was as uneventful as Friday, forcing her to acknowledge the truth that answers would not come. It was time for this strange, delightful, and maddening brainteaser to be cast aside.

The calendar she'd bought from a girl scout hung from the refrigerator's door. It was too heavy to be supported by a magnet, making tape the only viable solution. It didn't look half-bad. The anonymous note was an entirely different matter. Christine had spent hours staring at the handwriting, trying to recognize it to no avail. It was too brief to give the writer away solely by his choice of wording. The farewell could have been added without a second thought in an effort to remain polite yet amicable, but what if it wasn't the case ? Did she have rich friends ? No. That should have been enough, but Christine had made the note a permanent resident of her kitchen anyway.

Great. Those few scribbled words were awakening her latent OCD tendencies.

She sighed and headed into the living room, bottle of water in hand.

* * *

The campus was as hard to navigate as ever. Meg and Jimmy had found a cozy place under two young trees. The foliage wasn't thick, but still shielded their forms from the afternoon sun considerably well. Meg closed her engineering textbook on her finger when she saw her approach. Christine returned her smile and Jimmy's silent nod of acknowledgement before settling next to them.

"Hey," she said. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"He's been spending all of his time with the guy from Maine," Meg replied in Jimmy's stead, sounding falsely accusing.

"Who is the mystery guy then ?"

Jimmy shrugged. The awkwardness nearly evaporated with Meg around. "A business major. He's transferring here next semester; you'll meet him then. Talking about change, what's up with you ? Still going for that music thing ?" he expertly changed subjects.

Once again, Meg took it upon herself to answer. "Of course she is. I told you. I'm sure the program won't miss her. A freshman with no idea about the future will take her place in a heartbeat."

That much was true. Most of the students she had classes with sat through the lectures only to get some sort of degree out of it in a year or two. But she said nothing, choosing to concentrate on the rapid flow of people in her peripheral vision.

"Everything's okay," she said simply.

"You look less stressed."

"I _am_ less stressed." She hadn't realized just what a toll earning rent had taken on her. Two months of freedom tasted sweeter than candy. "Yeah, definitely," Christine concluded.

"I'm happy to hear that." Meg put her hand on her upper arm. "By the way, mom said our old piano is yours if you want it. You'll have to find and pay the movers, of course, but it's free otherwise. What do you say ? You could practice at home."

She winced. "I really don't have the space. Thanks, though."

"Girls, check this out."

Christine was grateful for Jimmy's intervention. It hurt refusing Meg; she always tried to help and, somehow, never succeeded. Jimmy got up and sat back down immediately, edging himself in between them. He positioned his smart phone at an arm-length distance so the screen was visible to everyone, and hit play. The previously frozen image came to life. It was a news segment and, from the looks of it, quite recent. From this very morning, in fact.

"Police investigation remains underway," a male voice announced as images of a vaguely familiar face flashed across the screen, "as clarity eludes the murder of NSA official Joseph Matthew Buquet. The body was found on the night of..."

Without the blood pouring down his face and the horrified expression, it was a little hard to make the link between the proud, elegant man in the photographs and the battered one wheezing in the alleyway. But it was undeniably him. Christine drank in the little details with morbid interest. He favored the five o'clock shadow over a clean shave; he wore mostly gray suits; he had wrinkles near his eyes and mouth, as someone who laughs a lot does.

Next, she saw a camera shakily follow a man who hurried toward the police building. In him, she recognized Landon. He fled the journalists without sparing them a glance; their questions were of no consequence to him, rolled off him like water off a duck's back and were soon forgotten. At last, he reached the secure perimeter of the building and disappeared behind a set of heavy double wooden doors.

Her first thought was that she'd be going down to the station more often.

The second was laced with terror.

Christine closed her hand around a handful of grass and, unknowingly, ripped it out. The tendrils fell out of her palm before getting carried away by the wind.

"The media is going wild," Jimmy commented. "It's crazy. Buquet was Mr. Big Shot apparently."

"That's the man, isn't it ?" Meg asked quietly. While at first Christine had wanted to keep the whole affair a secret, she'd caved and shared the awful experience. "I remember you mentioning the name. Buquet. Oh Christine...he's not just anyone, is he ?"

Suddenly, her head was pounding. She needed to get away.

"I don't know. I don't know. I mean yes." She pressed her fingers to her temples, massaging them. "I'm going home."

"Christine." Meg got up in turn with her. "I'll walk with you. Don't be scared."

She didn't have it in her to argue. Besides, Meg's presence was comforting. Her pretty voice murmured unimportant little nothings, its timbre reassuring and pleasing. Christine's shoulders finally relaxed after ten minutes. When twenty went by, she rediscovered normal breathing techniques.

So what ? She'd been safe up to this point. Who was to say that things were going to change after one stupid broadcast. News channels always exaggerated the facts. Maybe the man was just a secretary or something, but was paid all this attention because of his workplace. Maybe she didn't have anything to fear. If things got really bad, witness protection programs existed.

Landon assured her she'd be safe. That Khan man had told her the same thing. They had years of experience, they knew what they were talking about.

"Listen." Meg took hold of her arm as they reached her apartment complex. "If there's anything wrong, anything at all, you call me. I'll be there in a second."

"It's fine." Christine tried to smile.

The girl shook her head. "Don't try the brave act with me, I know you too well. I mean it, Christine. Just call."

Christine squeezed her free fingers. "I will."

"Okay." Meg nodded once more, this time to herself. "Great." And proceeded pulling her into a hug.

In the lobby, she passed Marc. He stopped her with a "No freebies for you today," followed by a loud chuckle. She just smiled at him as sincerely as she could.

* * *

Three visits to the station, an equal amount of small ibuprofen over-the-counter bottles, and Christine could not remember what her old routine used to be like. Everything was a blur of stress and panic. While the continuous reassurances of her safety poured from the lips of all, she did not feel that way. Was she becoming paranoid ? That was very possible. _Very much so._

She'd even sworn off from watching the news. Buquet's face was on every channel. Sunday mornings were a blessed time; they offered respite from reality, flooding her television's screen with cartoons for children. Christine would stare at them for hours, numb but laughing at the innocent jokes.

But today was a Tuesday so she was on edge. Her only class proved uneventful, and the teacher let them leave in advance. So much the better. There was traffic on the road and Meg and she got stuck in it, but arrived at the mall in time to begin their respective shifts.

"The days are getting darker," Tamara commented, leaning on the counter.

Christine joined her side. "It's winter soon."

"I hate winter," Jill echoed from behind a clothes rack. Her round face peered at them through a see-through blouse. "How's winter in Sweden, Christine ?"

"I don't remember, to be honest."

"Tell us all your secrets," Tamara teased gently. "You're so mysterious. Not like the chatterbox over there."

Christine rolled her eyes, exaggerating the gesture. "Seriously guys, drop it. We left when I was six. I just remember going to the beach."

"The beach..." Jill groaned in despair.

Perhaps it was the friendly conversation or the several minutes of ensuing laughter which lowered her guard; whatever the reason, when Christine left through the back door she was still smiling instead of scurrying to the bus stop. That retreat into dreamland did not allow her to focus quickly enough.

Someone caught her wrist and pulled. She stumbled, leaning into the pull to avoid the pain. Just then, she got out of the circle of light cast by the street light. It bought the other person the freedom to seize the back of her neck – leather whined against her skin – and used it to propel her head forward. She did not even squeak, did not have the time to, as the brick wall rushed up to meet her forehead. The pain was incredible, though, radiating throughout her skull.

The hit was enough to disorient her, but not to make her collapse. Christine blinked away tears and tried to scream, but nothing would come. Words had dried up on her lips. She saw nothing. Didn't notice a hand, or an arm, even though they existed, as the first wrapped itself around her sore wrist and the latter went over her shoulders. Her knees wobbled, but the invisible being held her upright with agonizing strength. She staggered through the empty alleyway behind the mall right into the deserted parking lot where she'd found Joseph Buquet – and failed to rescue him.

Her vision was foggy with tears, but Christine made out a black car nonetheless. Then she blinked and suddenly they were in front of it, the door was open, and soon she was inside. Backseat. Why not the passenger seat ? The confusion was overwhelming, but it gave way to rationality after a short while. She understood that she had to struggle. So she did, albeit feebly.

A heavy, irritated sigh wafted against the top of her head, stirring the hairs there. Some refused stubbornly to move, clinging to her skin along with the sweat – or was it blood ? Was she bleeding again ? No, it couldn't be right; she didn't smell any iron or salt. Sweat. Only sweat.

Oh. Oh. She couldn't breathe. Her thrashing became frantic, but died out when her limbs couldn't assemble any energy for an effective attack. A hand pressed down on her nose, blocked completely her mouth. She inhaled and a disgustingly sweet aroma invaded her nostrils and mouth, raced to her lungs.

Then the world went dark.

* * *

She was so dizzy.

And so thirsty.

Her mouth was dry, her tongue parched. Christine tried opening her eyes but, quite unexpectedly, an intense light flashed into them before she even lifted her eyelids halfway up. Gasping, she renounced the effort.

Something was being rubbed against her forearm. She finally realized it was her own sleeve as it was being rolled up. Then there was a short moment of pain during which a needle dove into her vein and out. A needle...It was a feeling she knew quite well, and even in this state of pure uncertainty Christine recognized it. The pain in her head went away and came back. It went on like that for a while until she couldn't pay it enough attention. Did it still hurt ? She couldn't say.

She felt drunk.

And sick.

A voice tried talking to her, but she did not understand what it wanted. Words were but foreign sounds to her ears. It did not relent, and at some point hands crept to her shoulders to steady her shaking body. The voice grew louder, softer, changed in pitch, was next to her ear and the instant after seemed as distant as the wind. Was the wind asking her questions ? The tone it was in sure sounded like one people used for questions.

Then the voice made sense. "I don't have any time left."

The light, which hadn't gone anywhere and until now fought to burn away her eyelids, was lowered. It was still present, but no longer shining. Her eyes reluctantly opened. The darkness hurt nearly as much as the light because it was petrifying. Had she gone blind ?

"Oh God..." Wait. That was her own voice. "I...I..."

"You understand of course that none of this is about you. I did not want for it to come to this; I'm sure you will agree. Unfortunately, you did walk into the line of fire. Fire is deadly." A pause. "The spotlight has grown too much for my taste; you've been in it for too long. I thought they'd leave you alone, but it didn't happen. I owe you at least an apology. Listen to it: I am sorry. And I do not have any time left. " Again that mention of time. No time for what ? "Keep your secrets."

There were hands around her neck, and they were squeezing, and she couldn't breathe, but oh there was something on her mind, on her drunken, confused mind, something she absolutely had to voice.

"Where's..." Christine choked, "where's my Schubert ?"

The squeezing stopped. The voice that followed was bewildered.

"What ?"

"My Schubert," she repeated. The need to laugh hysterically welled up inside of her. "My German's not good...but dad...ah...dad loved Schubert. I like Schubert too." Finally, she did giggle. "I can't though...very well...not enough time to practice...but had a lesson this morning."

Another silence. Then, "Why not ?"

"The station...Meg...they always ask questions." Christine sighed, feeling fatigued. The figure shook her once more to chase sleep away. "And it's the same thing, always."

"The same ?" The hands left her shoulders to resume their position around her throat.

She admitted, "Yes. I tell them I don't know and they ask again. Again and again and again." While her words slurred, her speech was remarkably unimpaired. It took a while to remember how to speak, but once she did it came back easily. It was like riding a bike; you can do it with your eyes closed.

"What do they ask, Christine ? What do you answer ?"

"My Schubert," she whispered, growing panicked. "It was dad's book, his only copy."

"It's right here," the voice assured her. "Trust me."

"Really ?"

"Truly," the person murmured.

Her shaky testimony relaxed the grip on her throat. With her normal airflow reinstated, all Christine could think about was sleep. Yet she couldn't shake off the feeling of dread. This wasn't right; she ought to be screaming for help.

"That's the book we used to record the CD," she said suddenly. Only silence answered. "Before dad lost his contract. He had another book but kept stealing this one. He recorded one professional CD. I said that already. I mean I didn't record it with him. No, I did. But in the end. A hidden track. He played and I just kind of sang along. Wasn't very good...ha ha..."

The voice returned, this time ordering her not to fall sleep on account of her head. It wasn't gentle, sounded very nearly rough, and its commanding quality scared her. The person readjusted her posture so she would be less likely to fall over and, if she did, the impact wouldn't be too bad. She did not see the voice's face, but felt the hands attached to the same body, and they were cold.

A melody filled the air around her. It wasn't a song, not quite, not rhythmic enough for that, but rather a lilt. It was softer than silk and belonged to the voice. How could it be so cruel on moment and so delicate the next ? The pitch was higher as well, more seductive. She listened with all her might, giving into its almost hypnotic effect.

"You drank too much," it was saying, "and wandered away from the group. You drank too much, Christine. You got lost and sent your friend a message to come and get you. You had too much to drink..."

Maybe she did. It was entirely plausible. And after an eternity of the sing-song voice whispering it into her ear, Christine was assured of it. She did have a glass too many, and Meg was on her way.

"Don't fall asleep."


End file.
